Bullhorn

Over the sputtering of low-powered motorcycles and the amplified whine of accordions blaring from cantinas without walls, Alberto Suaza brings the news to this steamy river port. He ventures out each morning at dawn, bullhorn slung over his right arm, notes scribbled on scraps of paper in his left hand, to spread the word of daily life in San Vicente del Caguan: the menu at Olga's Restaurant, the sale at El Rey Department Store and the funerals of townspeople who died in the night. Suaza is a modern descendant of the medieval town criers in a world on the cusp of the 21st century.

K.G. Wilson stood at a busy north Minneapolis intersection recently and called out the gang members and drug dealers mingled in the crowd. "We're taking on evil," he proclaimed through a bullhorn. "You don't see men over 40 being murdered here. It's always kids. ... Why are grandparents going to their grandchildren's funerals?" It's more than a rhetorical question for Wilson. For the ex-gang leader, drug dealer and addict, it's a crusade. Since the fatal shooting of 14-year-old Charez Jones in June 2007, Wilson, 43, has rushed to a half-dozen homicide scenes of complete strangers, most of them teenagers.

PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti -- From his hiding place in the hills, the Rev. Gerard Jean-Juste heard deposed President Jean-Bertrand Aristide deliver a message that announced victory, yet urged calm: "Pezi ak lanmou," Aristide said in Creole. Peace and love. Words meant to express joy because Aristide might soon return -- and to tell supporters in Haiti to be patient, to not do anything that could trigger even more violence and repression. Peace and love. Words that Gerard Jean-Juste has always preached, but concepts that have been hard to attain.

High up in the bell tower, men pull hard on dangling ropes, filling the square with eardrum-battering clangs. Down below, a man in a sweat-stained cowboy hat strums a guitar, and a woman's high-pitched voice pierces the air. "Delicious. Hot," she calls out as sweet corncakes turn brown on her grill. "How many will you take? How many?" A few steps away, deep in that vortex of sound, Barbara Beesne, a 1-year-old with long, curling eyelashes, lies motionless in her godmother's lap. It's five minutes before noon and, for Barbara, that means nap time.

K.G. Wilson stood at a busy north Minneapolis intersection recently and called out the gang members and drug dealers mingled in the crowd. "We're taking on evil," he proclaimed through a bullhorn. "You don't see men over 40 being murdered here. It's always kids. ... Why are grandparents going to their grandchildren's funerals?" It's more than a rhetorical question for Wilson. For the ex-gang leader, drug dealer and addict, it's a crusade. Since the fatal shooting of 14-year-old Charez Jones in June 2007, Wilson, 43, has rushed to a half-dozen homicide scenes of complete strangers, most of them teenagers.

In the face of disasters, whether natural or in his war of choice, George Bush can be counted on to deliver rosy pronouncements. Bolstered by the media's penchant for repeating the cheerleader's calls for victory rather than the score on the board, he initially escaped scrutiny for his devastating blunders. The president may continue to give speeches from the Rose Garden, but the bloom is clearly off the rose. Gripping the thorny stem, the American public has for a long time felt the pain of reality on the ground in the U.S. and abroad.

Art Johnson slings a bullhorn over his shoulder. "Let`s go," he says. And the principal is off, zooming out of his cushy, air-conditioned office and into the courtyard of Spanish River High School. The courtyard is as quiet as a desert. As Johnson zips along, he espouses a key point in his educational philosophy. It is astonishingly simple, and he knows it. "Kids," he says, "should be in class." At 10:23 sharp, the bell rings. Thousands of Boca Raton teen-agers wind through the courtyard, laughing, flirting, hollering to each other.

Last month I thought long and hard what to write about 9-11. Words limit our emotional reach. What can one say about this horrifying day without sounding maudlin, exploitative or self-righteous? Cicero, the greatest Roman philosopher, wrote a letter to his son, who was on a military campaign in North Africa. It started this way: Dear son, forgive me for my lengthy discourse, but I had no time to abbreviate. Words -- too few or too many -- always get in the way of feelings. So what does one do?

It's tempting to say the last refuge of scoundrels is the first order of business for Toby Keith. But Keith's bullhorn patriotism doesn't feel that calculated. He has always argued for America's greatness through his hard-rocking brand of country music. It's just that those appeals took on a military cast after 9-11, and people responded: Keith has become one of the most popular musicians in America during the last four years, regardless of genre, with millions of CDs and concert tickets sold.

High up in the bell tower, men pull hard on dangling ropes, filling the square with eardrum-battering clangs. Down below, a man in a sweat-stained cowboy hat strums a guitar, and a woman's high-pitched voice pierces the air. "Delicious. Hot," she calls out as sweet corncakes turn brown on her grill. "How many will you take? How many?" A few steps away, deep in that vortex of sound, Barbara Beesne, a 1-year-old with long, curling eyelashes, lies motionless in her godmother's lap. It's five minutes before noon and, for Barbara, that means nap time.

In the face of disasters, whether natural or in his war of choice, George Bush can be counted on to deliver rosy pronouncements. Bolstered by the media's penchant for repeating the cheerleader's calls for victory rather than the score on the board, he initially escaped scrutiny for his devastating blunders. The president may continue to give speeches from the Rose Garden, but the bloom is clearly off the rose. Gripping the thorny stem, the American public has for a long time felt the pain of reality on the ground in the U.S. and abroad.

Last month I thought long and hard what to write about 9-11. Words limit our emotional reach. What can one say about this horrifying day without sounding maudlin, exploitative or self-righteous? Cicero, the greatest Roman philosopher, wrote a letter to his son, who was on a military campaign in North Africa. It started this way: Dear son, forgive me for my lengthy discourse, but I had no time to abbreviate. Words -- too few or too many -- always get in the way of feelings. So what does one do?

It's tempting to say the last refuge of scoundrels is the first order of business for Toby Keith. But Keith's bullhorn patriotism doesn't feel that calculated. He has always argued for America's greatness through his hard-rocking brand of country music. It's just that those appeals took on a military cast after 9-11, and people responded: Keith has become one of the most popular musicians in America during the last four years, regardless of genre, with millions of CDs and concert tickets sold.

Students cry in their presence. Parents yell at them. They serve children from some of the poorest families in the nation -- and some of the wealthiest. Teachers need things from them every day. Administrators move them around like pawns on a chessboard. And then there's the School Board, changing its policies and expectations with regularity. With so many pressures, demands and responsibilities, its no wonder that few have more impact on the education of a Palm Beach County public school student than the district's nearly 200 principals.

He was out in hurricane-like force on Election Day -- hundreds of supporters decked out in T-shirts bearing his name, handing out palm cards, while the candidate armed with a bullhorn loudly urged voters to cast their ballots for him. Irving Slosberg and his backers were out en masse Tuesday with an overpowering intensity, handing out free "schlepper" bags to all takers and battling for any last-minute converts. He claims to have had more than 300 workers at the polls. "He was rather wild," said Isabella Fink, president of the Century Village West Democratic Club and a supporter of one of Slosberg's foes, incumbent Rep. Curt Levine.

Over the sputtering of low-powered motorcycles and the amplified whine of accordions blaring from cantinas without walls, Alberto Suaza brings the news to this steamy river port. He ventures out each morning at dawn, bullhorn slung over his right arm, notes scribbled on scraps of paper in his left hand, to spread the word of daily life in San Vicente del Caguan: the menu at Olga's Restaurant, the sale at El Rey Department Store and the funerals of townspeople who died in the night. Suaza is a modern descendant of the medieval town criers in a world on the cusp of the 21st century.

He was out in hurricane-like force on Election Day -- hundreds of supporters decked out in T-shirts bearing his name, handing out palm cards, while the candidate armed with a bullhorn loudly urged voters to cast their ballots for him. Irving Slosberg and his backers were out en masse Tuesday with an overpowering intensity, handing out free "schlepper" bags to all takers and battling for any last-minute converts. He claims to have had more than 300 workers at the polls. "He was rather wild," said Isabella Fink, president of the Century Village West Democratic Club and a supporter of one of Slosberg's foes, incumbent Rep. Curt Levine.

Students cry in their presence. Parents yell at them. They serve children from some of the poorest families in the nation -- and some of the wealthiest. Teachers need things from them every day. Administrators move them around like pawns on a chessboard. And then there's the School Board, changing its policies and expectations with regularity. With so many pressures, demands and responsibilities, its no wonder that few have more impact on the education of a Palm Beach County public school student than the district's nearly 200 principals.

PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti -- From his hiding place in the hills, the Rev. Gerard Jean-Juste heard deposed President Jean-Bertrand Aristide deliver a message that announced victory, yet urged calm: "Pezi ak lanmou," Aristide said in Creole. Peace and love. Words meant to express joy because Aristide might soon return -- and to tell supporters in Haiti to be patient, to not do anything that could trigger even more violence and repression. Peace and love. Words that Gerard Jean-Juste has always preached, but concepts that have been hard to attain.

Art Johnson slings a bullhorn over his shoulder. "Let`s go," he says. And the principal is off, zooming out of his cushy, air-conditioned office and into the courtyard of Spanish River High School. The courtyard is as quiet as a desert. As Johnson zips along, he espouses a key point in his educational philosophy. It is astonishingly simple, and he knows it. "Kids," he says, "should be in class." At 10:23 sharp, the bell rings. Thousands of Boca Raton teen-agers wind through the courtyard, laughing, flirting, hollering to each other.